


Oracle Week 2017

by theragingstorm



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Birds of Prey (Comic)
Genre: Barbara Centric, But mostly fluff, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Love, Multi, Some angst, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theragingstorm/pseuds/theragingstorm
Summary: Seven small celebrations of Barbara Gordon as Oracle, one for each day leading up to her birthday.





	1. You gave me hope and you let me know

**Author's Note:**

> So, taking a very brief respite from the excitement of my multi chapter fic for some bliss, and some well-deserved appreciation for this wonderful character. 
> 
> Each chapter is titled with a lyric from a song I find appropriate for the situation, relationship, or both, spotlighted in the chapter. In this case, "Gave Me Something" by Jess Glynne. 
> 
> And now, on with the celebration!

“It’s Spoiler, and I need to tell you about a matter of life and death, Oracle. Batgirl and I need to come over to your base straight away; the urgency of this cannot be overstated.”

“Your essay’s due tomorrow and you still haven’t started it, right?”

“It’s supposed to be ten pages long! I’m going to kill myself churning this out without your help!”

“She will.”

“You’re not helping, motor mouth.”

So Barbara had transformed her living room into a study area, the French press bubbling away cheerfully in the kitchen, a small arrangement of books and pens resting on the coffee table, should Stephanie need to get in some extra research. Autumn sunlight filtered through the massive clock face, bathing the living room in buttery white. 

“Your thesis is strong,” she commented, peering over the girl’s shoulder at her outline. “But you need some more cohesive arguments. These just seem to cover multiple topics, instead of the main one in your thesis. Also, you need to organize your ideas better.”

“Well, jeez, we can’t all be geniuses.” Steph looked despondently at her scribbly outline.

“Genii.” 

“You know you’re just proving my point.”

“She’s not. Knowing words…does not make you smarter.”

The two of them looked over at Cass, who was doing one-hand-stands next to the couch. She placed her other hand on the floor, then flipped backwards and landed neatly on the balls of her feet. 

“Sorry, Cassie,” Steph said awkwardly, “I didn’t mean —”

“You can write, at least. I…can barely talk. Can’t even read.” Cass’s head dropped, drawing her arms around herself and shuffling her feet. 

Steph sighed, tossing the pen in her hand down over the paper. 

“Forget it. I’ll just wing the whole paper; it’s not the teachers really care.”

“You will do absolutely no such thing,” Barbara scolded her. The girl’s blond head snapped up. “Just because public school teachers don’t give a shit about their jobs doesn’t mean you shouldn’t believe in your own abilities. Cassandra, you come here too.”

Cass, who’d been wandering off towards the training room, started in place. 

“You might not be able to read like most people yet, but I’m not giving up on you, either.” She gestured, and the young girl approached slowly. “I know that you want to read, but you can’t expect yourself to be able to do it perfectly and immediately.”

Cass blinked.

“But I do everything…perfectly and immediately.”

Had anyone else said that, Barbara would’ve laughed. But she knew that Cass meant it with true sincerity.

“ _Nobody’s_ perfect, Cassie. Not even truly excellent, truly skillful people. It’s not possible.”

“Like, we’re never going to have a female Earth Lantern not possible, or really not possible?” Steph piped up.

“Really not possible. Look you two, I’ve met Wonder Woman.”

“Lucky.”

“She’s an excellent person, and yes, she’s just as cool in every way as you think she is —”

As per usual, the three of them took a moment to get silently excited about Wonder Woman.

“— but my god, she cannot carry a tune at all, and her cellulite makes mine look downright nonexistent.”

The two teenagers giggled in surprised outrage. Barbara chuckled, rolling a little closer to the coffee table and scooping up Steph’s mother’s battered old laptop. 

“Gotta love Diana, though.” She handed the laptop back over to Stephanie, who promptly began typing. “Did you know she’s bisexual?”

“Wait, really!?”

“Really! She’s very proud of it. And I mean, considering where she comes from…”

“Island of all women,” Cass finished. There was a sparkle in the girl’s eyes, like sunlight catching a vein of quartz. “That sounds…wonderful.”

“Ooh, tell me about it,” Steph sighed, the old laptop clattering as she pounded at the keys. “That’s amazing, and I wish I’d known before. I worshipped her when the League first started, and it would’ve made me feel way better about myself when I was a kid.”

Barbara hummed softly, rolling away, then backing off towards her massive, stuffed bookshelf on the other side of the room. She ran a finger along the wafer-thin spines, until she finally pulled out one that had been a favorite of hers when she was a young girl. 

“Maybe sometime when Bruce isn’t being an ass, she could come over and visit,” she suggested, rolling back over with the book. Cass perched on the armrest of the chair next to her, peering down at the book owlishly. “If there’s anything you two would like to talk to her about, to feel more affirmed in yourselves…”

“Thought that’s what we had you for,” Steph said lightly, squinting at the screen. “This sentence does not look right…”

Although it had been toned like a joke, the remark warmed Barbara to the core. She blinked a few times, glancing over at Cass. Her dark eyes scanned her, taking in her body language, not needing to say a word to let Barbara know she understood her. 

“Well then.” She opened the book. “Steph, tell me when you’ve finished your draft so I can look it over.” She placed a finger underneath each word as she spoke them, Cass’s sharp gaze following diligently, the three of them clustered close in the warm Tower on that crisp, golden day. 

“ _‘It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers…’_ ”


	2. Doll, you make them feel so small (and they love it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one features an infamous love triangle...cat-fights...jealousy...an inability to be mature human beings...
> 
> I'm kidding, this one's all about everyone admiring each other. Love triangles whom?
> 
> Title from Peaches' "Boys Wanna Be Her"

Barbara had felt overly conspicuous multiple times over her life, but booking it at top speed through a criminal hideout escorted by a stunningly beautiful, orange-skinned flying alien in a skimpy purple outfit with green glowing hands and eyes, _had_ to be a new high.

“Any chance you could seal the exits, Starfire?” she grunted, knocking a pair of thugs out of their way. “I don’t need more of these bozos getting in my way.”

“It is no problem.” From a foot above her head, Kori twisted midair, blasting the door to the staircase shut and melting the keypad with another star-bolt. “And it is lucky you have memorized the layout of this particular crime lord’s building. But, not to sound ungrateful, I hope that most of your friends’ visits to Gotham do not end in having to save someone from a mission gone wrong.”

“Unfortunately, they often do.”

She slotted the priestess mask more securely over her face and rolled to the next door, swiftly bypassing the code to the higher levels. The door whined in protest but slid open nonetheless, revealing a yet-empty corridor.

Kori floated down until her boots were only an inch above the floor, the glow in her eyes fading slightly.

“That is unusual.” Her voice echoed against the bare concrete. “Why are the higher areas unguarded?”

“I don’t know yet.” Barbara pulled out her phone again, displaying a three-dimensional model of the building in the air, which cast both the women in a cobalt glow. “But according to the blueprints, we’re on the administrative level. If the big boss wants to keep his enemy close, this would be the place to do it.”

Kori raised her hands in an offensive position, neon-scarlet curls drifting on the still air; Barbara sat the small device on her lap and pulled her escrima out again.

“What truly intrigues me is that you were able to pick up that distress beacon in the first place and hold so much backup information with just a cell phone. What else can that simple technology of yours do?”

“It can play solitaire and connect to my Twitter account,” she said innocently.

Before Kori could retort, the tracker began to beep. Barbara quickly silenced it, then nodded to her companion.

The two of them made their way down the hall, wheels creaking slightly.

“There is one more…problem.”

Barbara looked at her.

“I hope that my presence here does not make things strange. It has been some time…”

“Why would it — oh. No, of course not. You’re my friend, you’re here on my side, and I’m not stupid enough to compromise that for petty jealousy.”

“That you are not,” Kori agreed, smiling a bit. “I thank you.”

“Hey, you know me. I always like having powerful female friends.”

“Perhaps it is they who enjoy being around powerful females.”

Barbara did a double take, then she smiled too.

But the tracker interrupted again, the beep loud and insistent.

“This is it. Here on the left.”

The door to the room was made of opaque glass, the silhouette of the prisoner within just visible from the other side. Barbara tapped in the key code, the door clicking open.

It looked a bit strange, the man imprisoned chained to, of all things, an office swivel chair. But although he was clearly unconscious, most likely tranquillized, he looked relatively unharmed.

Barbara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, invisible weight falling away from her shoulders.

Not being one to beat around the bush, Kori flew forward and ripped the metal apart like it was paper, before smartly slapping the prisoner across the face.

“Nightwing, wake up!”

He jerked back to life, his previously untouched face now sporting a red handprint across his cheek.

“What the — Starfire?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “But you need not worry, I am not alone.” She moved out of the way so that he could see Barbara, still sitting in the doorway. His eyes were still hidden behind his mask, but she knew him well enough to tell that if she could see them, they would be alight with joy.

“Thanks, ladies.” Dick tried to get to his feet, but stumbled. Kori quickly bent down, holding his arm over her shoulders and supporting his weight. “Guess I’m still a bit tranqed…we gotta get out of here.”

“That is what we came here to do,” Barbara pointed out, rolling forward.

“No, I mean…”

She heard a noise behind her, then wheeled around. A whole crowd of guards had appeared behind her, dressed in black bulletproof armor, weapons at the ready.

“…That’s gonna happen,” Dick finished. “Shit. Wilson must’ve had them all waiting for when you’d be getting me out of here.”

“They will not defeat us,” Kori scoffed. “The two of us together —”

“We can’t fight together.” Barbara shifted in her seat, flexing her grip on her weapons. “Our main objective is saving Nightwing. We won’t be able to do that if we’re both fighting, but if one of us gets him out while the other holds them off…and Starfire, you’re the only one who can fly.”

Both of them looked at her.

“You have thirty seconds to release the prisoner and surrender,” the head of the goon squad yelled.

“Oracle —”

“Don’t argue with me!” Barbara said impatiently. “Starfire, get out of here! Nightwing, don’t worry about me.”

He didn’t look surprised or worried, but instead leaned into Kori’s strong grip, preparing to take off.

“You know best.”

“Three — two — one —”

She didn’t see the two of them flying away, only the assaulting waves of men before her. She slammed a button on her chair, releasing taser lines that took out a jitteriness, screaming dozen of them, leaving a path for her towards the elevator.

She put all her strength into propelling herself forward, shooting down the hallways at top speed with the crowd of men screaming behind her. Gunshots fired, turning her nerves to jelly, barely ducking them.

Rolling to the side, slamming the DOWN, she fidgeted for an agonizing three seconds before the elevator door _dinged_ open, then rocketed inside and hit the CLOSE DOOR button. A bullet dented the metal of the door just before the elevator began to descend.

The thirty-second elapse began.

Muzak played.

_“Raindrops keep falling on my head…”_

She waited.

The doors opened with another pleasant _ding_.

Before her stood another two-dozen-odd men.

“Give it up,” one of them bellowed through a megaphone. “You have nowhere to go!”

Barbara slowly placed her technology away, then raised her hands up. Her grip slacked on her escrima sticks like she was about to drop them…

The men before her relaxed, just slightly.

Her grip tightened again.

Before the men realized what was happening, they each caught a part of her simultaneous wide strikes to the jaw. Then, before they could react, she shot forward, viciously hitting and head-butting and bringing her wheels down on people’s feet.

“Somebody kill her!”

The man who’d bawled this out quickly realized that he had a pair of polished wooden rods framing his windpipe. She stared him down, panting, relishing in being able to watch him sweat while her own face was hidden behind her mask.

“Let me pass,” she called out to the room. “Let me pass, or I crush his throat.”

Obviously, he wasn’t Wilson himself, just the head of the guards. And of course, she was bluffing; she had no intention of killing anyone. But as the seconds of the stalemate ticked by, she hoped that her threat would be enough.

Eventually, the man whimpered and said:

“Let her pass, for god’s sake!”

The guards reluctantly parted. Still holding one of her escrima against his neck, Barbara one-handedly wheeled herself towards the door, staying very aware of the fact that he had a gun, and she did not.

The glass door swung open into the cool night, and soon she and the head guard appeared to be alone. She dropped her grip, raising her hand towards the sky —

He bent to the side to pull out his gun —

— But she was already gone, swooped away by a streak of flame.

Barbara glanced down at the swiftly shrinking building as they climbed above the skyline, Kori keeping a firm grip on the back of her wheelchair, the cold air whistling through her clothes.

“It’s a really good thing I’m not scared of heights.”

“That was amazing,” Dick gushed next to her. Kori had her other hand gripping the back of his uniform, so that the two of them were roughly eye-level. “I saw everything through the door…you’re incredible.”

“It is a good thing you are on our side,” Kori agreed. “You are truly a warrior as well as a scholar.”

“Thank you. And thank you for having my back.” She glanced at both of them. “But…let’s not do that again tonight.”

“Definitely not.”

Barbara tucked her weapons away again, sitting back and enjoying the feeling of the wind, the view of the stars from above the city smog, and the strange yet wonderful company.


	3. Why can't we all be as one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I could've gone the badass route with this one as well, but then I figured that the superheroines deserved a day off. 
> 
> Also, for the record, I always picture Helena with her Rebirth design, but her professional uniform is something like what she had in the 90s Birds of Prey's Manhunt arc. 
> 
> Title from Anna Wise's "Decrease My Waist, Increase My Wage"

It had been a long, difficult month for the Birds of Prey. First a psychic (and psychotic) serial killer had terrorized Florida, then a defrosted plesiosaur had wreaked havoc off the Côte D’Ivoire while Cheshire simultaneously targeted the Liberian ambassador, and then a bus full of tourists exploring Paris had stumbled across a lost boom tube and gotten themselves trapped on Apokolips.

 _Again_.

But Oracle still wasn’t done with her three top women.

“I have an important mission for you all in particular. Suit up, take the Aerie One into Gotham, and meet me at Bruce Wayne’s private landing strip. I’ll explain in detail when you arrive.”

Which was how the four of them had ended up at the Delphi Day Spa, with blue gunk that smelled of jasmine drying on their faces, lavender oil on their skin, and a handsome man per superheroine to rub their shoulders.

“I still can’t believe this was your idea,” Zinda sighed, leaning back into her masseuse’s touch. “This is so…unprofessional.”

Barbara peered at her blissed-out teammates.

“Hey, you guys needed a break, in my very professional opinion. Besides, I can be fun sometimes. Just ask the Bat-kids.”

“Yeah, ask Nightwing,” Dinah agreed, the leer on her face cracking through the mask. “He’d know.”

“How can you think of that guy in present gorgeous company?” Helena said in faux horror. “Nikandros, that’s your name, right? I apologize for my friend.”

“They only speak Greek, Hel.”

“I still think he got the message.”

“Besides, how can we _not_ think of handsome guys surrounded by more handsome guys?” Dinah sighed in joy. “They may wear masks and more clothing, but you can’t deny what’s right before your eyes.”

“No kidding,” Barbara agreed. She took a long sip of the drink in her hand, which was shocking pink and sweet enough to cover up the taste of straight vodka. “Speaking of which, what’s up with that? Why do the PR agents of hero teams keep pushing the women to wear less feasible, and less in general, clothing? Why do serious news stations and articles keep focusing more on our looks and diet plans than our saving the world? We should lobby for practical uniforms and fair treatment.”

“Better yet, we should put Superman in heels and fishnets and see how _he_ likes it,” Zinda snorted. Helena cackled.

“He gets his powers from the sun, right? Like Starfire?” Dinah chimed in. “So let’s put him in something like _her_ outfit.”

“Knowing Clark, I’m sure he’d rock a toothfloss bikini and tiny capes over his nipples,” Barbara grinned while her friends howled with laughter. “And Lois can keep the inevitable tabloid pictures for posterity. It’s what I’d do.”

When the laughter died down, the women returned to their slow state of contemplation.

“But seriously, we do _not_ get treated fairly,” Helena said. “No matter what good work we do, we’re just the useless sluts in spandex who get objectified all the time. Thank god we have this all-women team, or I’d go crazy and start killing bitches.”

“You already kill bitches.”

“What’s your point?”

“We should recruit more,” Zinda piped up before it could turn into a serious debate. “We could use more members, and female superheroes could use some solidarity. What say you, Barb?”

Her friends’ eyes all landed on her. Even off-duty, it was still an automatic reflex.

She cleared her throat, swirling her drink. Within the steamy, floral-scented warmth of the massage room, it was a little harder to think as clearly as usual, but she began to think nonetheless.

“Zinda’s got a point,” she mused. “Most of our active members have other obligations to think about, and it would be good to always have someone available, to never stretch ourselves too thin. Besides, the bigger and more powerful we get, the more we’ll be able to be taken seriously. Any ideas for recruits?”

“Vixen, Bumblebee, Question, Batwoman, Zatanna,” Dinah suggested promptly. “Also, Red Arrow, and even Speedy, if she’s not too busy with the Titans. I can get them on board no problem.”

“Thunder and Lightning!” Zinda exclaimed, nearly spilling her Long Island iced tea in excitement. “Ooh, um, Rocket, Superwoman, the new girl Green Lantern, Aquawoman, Dr. Light…the Amazons!”

“Which Amazons?” Barbara chortled.

“All of them!”

“…How about I call Troia this afternoon and see where that goes?”

“Works for me. Hel?”

Helena took Nikandros’ hand and shifted it a little lower down her shoulder.

“This is gonna turn us from the Birds of Prey into the Everyone-and-Whatever-Works of Prey.”

“When have we _ever_ kept to our theme?” Barbara said dryly. “Besides, I think it’s a good idea. As good as this spa day, at least.” She handed her now-empty glass over to her masseuse, who paused rubbing her shoulders long enough to put it away. “I’ll get straight to compiling an actual list when I get back to the Tower, so you might as well spit out any ideas. Even if you think they’re crazy.”

“You _are_ the boss.” Helena’s resistance melted. “How about we go whole hog and just recruit Wonder Woman herself, then?”

It was taken as the outlandish statement that it was by Dinah and Zinda, judging by their shocked expressions. But Barbara just nodded.

“I think I can talk Diana into it.”

“See, to you she’s just Diana, and you can talk her into things —” Zinda shook her head. “This is why you’re the boss.”

“That, and her ability to make technology and the internet actually  _work_ ,” Dinah pointed out.

“And my charm and good looks,” she joked.

“Oh, I’ll drink to that.” Dinah raised her piña colada solemnly, the others following suit. “And to great ideas.”

“And to the gal who has the ability to carry them out!”

The three of them leaned over and clinked their glasses.

Barbara smiled, leaning back into her chair, and into the smoldering pleasure of touch, of scent, and of her friends.


	4. Each day I feel so blessed to be looking at you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make myself emotional with this one.
> 
> Also, as I wrote this, I realized it could very well take place a few months after my long fic Roots ends, but you don't need to read that to understand this. 
> 
> Title from Beyoncé's "Blue"

Barbara looked despondently at the ruins surrounding her.

“I’m a failure.”

Brightly colored pieces of plastic, some bigger than others, littered the carpet. A happy little bumblebee lay next to a frog, the main body had collapsed into its original puzzle-piece quarters. The instructions, now crumpled, had been wadded up and thrown across the room twice, then smoothed out, then flung at the ruins themselves. It was a sweltering August weekday, and even within her temperature-controlled home, she could feel the heat and humidity crawling over her skin. Yet, the remains of the baby walker looked cold and sad in their separate pieces.

“I have three PHDs, I can wage war with a cheap cell phone and one lousy internet signal, I have hacked the Pentagon and the White House from my bedroom, and I still can’t put together a child’s toy.”

She sighed in frustration, slumping back, dead legs sprawled across the floor. Running her hands through her half-tied-up hair, she gave the instructions one last helpless look.

“I mean, _I_ don’t ask to be able to walk. But is it too much to ask for one little device to entertain my son and help _him_ be able to walk?”

As the words left her mouth, Cassandra emerged from the next room in a tank top and shorts, pulling her earbuds out and setting her phone aside, her hair unselfconsciously tousled. The younger woman yawned and stretched her arms over her head, before peering quizzically at the floor.

“What?”

“Cassandra, half these instructions are in Mandarin. You understand Mandarin better than I do, what does…” She squinted at the characters: _插入標籤槽 **a** 和 **b** 推入插槽 **d**_. “ _Chārù biāoqiān cáo **a** hé **b** tuī rù chā cáo **d** _ mean?”

Cass tilted her head to the side.

“Means you need better instructions.”

“Great.” Barbara sat back on her hands, tilting her head up and exhaling hard.

Cass made her way over, carefully tiptoeing over the separate plastic pieces. When she reached Barbara, she sank down to the floor, graceful as a bird, leaning her deceptively small frame into the older woman’s shoulder. Barbara gratefully wrapped an arm around her strong shoulders, leaning in in reply.

“I just don’t know what I’m doing, Cassie. By all means I should be pleased with my life: my work has never been more fulfilling, I’m happy with the man I love, my friends are all doing well.” She sighed, gently rubbing her hand against Cass’s shoulder. Cass nestled in closer. “But I don’t know how to be a good mother.”

Those brown eyes locked into her own.

“My mom left when I was in middle school. My birth mom died so long ago I don’t even remember her. Almost none of my friends have kids of their own. Sarah’s more of a friend than a true parent. Selina’s always been an inconstant presence.” She puffed out a breath, stray strands of red hair flying out of her eyes. “I don’t know how to raise my son right, and this damn walker’s just reminding me of that.”

Cassandra was quiet for a while, just accepting her presence and touch.

“He’s sleeping. No need to worry now.”

“Right. So he doesn’t have to hear his mom lose her mind.”

“No. You are not doing anything wrong with him, but still panic.”

Barbara looked at her.

“Did you miss the part where I can’t even put together a toy, let alone figure out how to raise him?”

Cass shifted a little bit.

“You worry about raising a child. You worry he will not turn out right, you will ruin him.”

“You don’t have to remind me!” she exclaimed, roughly dragging her hand down from her hair across her face. The girl beside her sighed, ducking her head, silky black locks falling across her eyes.

“But I…am not ruined. I am better. Much better.” She peered through the curtain of hair, gazing up at the summer sun through the windows. The light struck her irises, illuminating them like opals. “I was ruined before. You…are why am not. Not why I was.”

Barbara was dumbstruck; gaping at the young woman, blinking slowly.

“Shiva gave me life. But you…are everything she should have been.” Cass sighed softly, nestling back against her shoulder. “Cannot express all that you are, have been, with words or gestures.”

Soft tears welled up behind her eyes. She groaned with emotion, pulling Cassandra around and wrapping both arms around her, holding her close. The hug was swiftly returned, heat radiating from the young woman’s core; Barbara’s heart literally and figuratively warmed by her.

“Oh, Cassie…” She buried her face in her shoulder. “I love you too. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

“You…big part…of what made me who I am,” Cass mumbled into her neck. “Give yourself credit.”

She pulled away, regarding Cassandra Cain-Wayne. She was a wonderful person, a good person, and she was a daughter in all but blood. Not that blood had ever mattered much in that family, anyway.

“Maybe a stupid toy doesn’t determine anything after all.”

“That’s the spirit.” Her eyes glimmered.

Barbara chuckled slightly, about to start on the walker with renewed vigor…

…When they were interrupted by the sound of the baby crying.

“He’s hungry,” Cass figured.

Barbara huffed, pulling her chair back over and hoisting herself into it. As she did, Cass was already on her way to the room, making soft gibberish noises that made no sense in any language but always soothed fussy children.

She reemerged holding the baby, who had already snuggled against her, carefully, and smiling. The cries had already died down somewhat.

“Apparently, good taste in people is genetic.”

Cassandra blushed.


	5. But feathers are meant for the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be a bit of an overly specific scenario, but I LOVE restaurant/food industry AUs, and there are not enough of them out there. I might even do more with this one eventually, who knows? 
> 
> I was also thinking about my own family, who quite literally live on the other side of the world, so...there might be just a little bit of projection going on here. 
> 
> Title from Gabrielle Aplin's "Home"

Barbara poured over the files on her computer, frowning. Business at the Rogue Gallery had been doing well lately, and she was curious as to why that shady band of corner-cutters had been drawing a bigger crowd than usual. The Watchtower was doing well too, as usual, but they weren’t her competitors; in fact, she was friends with the owner and his children. The woman who owned Paradise Island had completely changed up the place since her daughters left the family establishment, and Krypton looked like it was well on its way to a big drop in customers since that mass-food-poisoning situation…

Her phone rang, and she set aside her computer, rolling her chair across the stately living room. The apartment in downtown Metropolis was a little large for a woman living alone, but she enjoyed a good income, and most tenants didn’t want to rent a place that was inconvenient to walk to.

Not that that mattered to Barbara.

She made her way to the largest window, gold-white light glowing through the apartment, glass and steel rounding all the way to the horizon, the whole city like a massive jewel set upon the claws of an engagement ring. The enormous clock that had been a birthday present from Bruce gazed down upon the whole area from the middle of the wall, ticking gently. She watched the streaks of traffic blaze across the white-striped streets just as she held the phone to her ear.

“Dinah! Talk to me; how does everything look today?”

The sound of pots clattering, Kendra’s chattering, and Barda’s yelling echoed down the line, along with the occasional _whoosh_ of flames. Dinah, who was likely sticking her finger in her free ear, Barbara thought with amusement, had to shout to be heard above the kitchen’s cacophony.

“Everything’s fine! The new kid, Charlie, passed her interview with flying colors, and Zinda’s got in those wines from Star City that you asked for.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Yeah, turns out we’re gonna need those seasonal changes to the menu sooner than we thought. Vicki Vale’s planning on dropping by in two weeks, and I heard through the grapevine that Lois Lane herself might come to check us out for the first time soon.”

Barbara grimaced. Vale was notoriously nit-picky, and while she’d never had the famous Lois Lane in the Clock Tower before, she’d heard that she was very tough. Fair and unbiased, but tough.

“So, you got anything yet?”

“I’ll come up with some recipes today,” she promised. “Just remind Dawn to smile at the customers, and try to keep Helena from any attempted homicide.”

“I make no promises. See you tonight, Babs.”

She hung up, leaving Barbara with a new sense of urgency. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, sparing the shining skyline one last look before rolling to the kitchen.

She had come a long, long way since being a little girl in Gotham City, standing on a chair and stirring pots with her dad in their mid-size apartment. She wasn’t just a cop’s daughter anymore, or a wealthy restaurateur’s apprentice. But that didn’t stop her from calling Bruce fairly often and spending time with the Wayne kids. It certainly didn’t stop her from missing her father every day she spent in Metropolis.

Barbara regarded the vast kitchen, contemplating, for a few minutes. She then began to bustle about the place, pulling out all the ingredients she knew she would need, plus a few that would likely add to the dish, for a good squash soup.

Soon the kitchen was filled with the fresh smell of raw vegetables. As she finished chopping, her phone began to ring again.

She quickly rinsed her hands off and checked the caller ID. She started, then began to smile.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, sweetheart. Just checking in: how’s life in the big city?”

“Gotham’s not exactly small, you know,” she pointed out, turning the heat on under the olive oil, butter, and onions.

“Are you kidding? The subway stations in Metropolis make my precinct look like a high school classroom. And you didn’t answer the question.”

She chuckled a bit, dropping handfuls of chopped pumpkin into her food processor.

“Everything’s fine, Dad. The restaurant’s doing well; I’m going to scope the competition out a bit more, but it’s doing very well.”

Jim Gordon sighed softly, echoing down the line like a rush of wind.

“You okay?”

“Some days I still can’t believe it, Babs. It’s been years since you started that place, and I still can’t believe my little girl made it big. Guess I should’ve expected it, though.”

She flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the heat from the stove.

“Nobody could’ve guessed that the Clock Tower would take off the way it did.”

“Except that you were at the helm.”

The warm smell of cooking onions began to permeate the air. Finger still slightly smeared with bits of pumpkin, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, smiling.

“Don’t sound so surprised about the way I turned out. You are the one who raised me.”

“And now that you’re grown up, I get to take credit when you and your lady friends end up on those reality food shows. Every time I hear Harvey and Renee yelling from the break room ‘Jim, your daughter’s on TV again,’ I know they’re giving me bragging rights.”

“Good old Harvey and Renee.” She thought wistfully of the two detectives, irritating as Bullock and stubborn as Montoya could be. “I’m glad they were always around to help watch me when I was a kid.”

“Though not help you cook, thank god.”

“Yeah, I don’t think either of them would know a meal that didn’t consist of preservatives and caffeine if it got up and bit them,” she said affectionately.

There were a few moments of silence as she tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear before pouring the rest of the ingredients into the pot.

“So what are you making now? Sounds like soup.”

“Yeah, it’s, um…squash soup. I’m changing up your recipe a bit for the fall menu.” She wiped her hands off on her jeans, then took her phone back. A note of anxiety crept into her voice. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Jim was quiet, and for a moment Barbara was worried that she’d upset him. Her dad wasn’t exactly a master chef, but he was proud of how he’d shaped the recipes he did know. The ones they’d made together when she was young.

“Sweetheart, you’re not a little girl anymore. You’re all grown up, you’re incredibly successful, you’ve gone even farther than even your old dad could’ve predicted. I’m proud of you no matter what you do at this point.”

Barbara had to pause to wipe her eyes. The pot of what would become soup began to steam gently.

“So what I’m getting is…I can make food a different way.”

“Yes, of course. I just had to tell you all that sappy dad stuff first before I go back to work.”

She laughed a little wetly.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, Babsy. Now go! Back to _your_ job, too.”

“Okay! I’ll let you know next time I find a chance to come back to Gotham.”

“Sounds good. But go! Go!”

Smiling even broader, she hung up again, the tasks before her less daunting. She gathered herbs from her cupboard with one hand, checking her finances on her phone with the other, losing herself within the tasks of her career as Metropolis turned to autumn.


	6. I'm falling right back in love with being alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-last day, everybody. This one's a little more introspective, also edging slightly into poetry territory. 
> 
> Title from Kesha's "Rainbow"

There was little warmth, but instead traces of gold, in the first rays of sunshine, when Barbara awoke that morning. Still streaks of white on the ground, but tiny nubs of green and pink had begun to emerge from the branches of the city’s trees, little dapple-brown birds zipping past her window.

From within the sea of white bedsheets, she yawned, rolling over to see whether any alerts had gone off on her devices; which there had not.

So she had some time to herself before she had to go back online.

Before long, the slowly-illuminating Tower had been permeated with the sharp scent of brewing coffee. She popped a bagel into the toaster, spread sweet raspberry jam across the crumbly bread, then added a bit of milk to her steaming mug.

The balcony had already been lit by early morning sun when she rolled out onto it. Still in her pajamas and warm bathrobe, she balanced the bagel atop her lap and clutched the mug of coffee, watching the steam curl into the early spring air.

Every morning. Every morning since pulling herself out of the worst of her miserable depression, she was awake to see the sun come. Even on the days when it crept back into into her brain like sickly fog, she mustered the strength to wake up on time, to make it to her computer, to do what she needed to even when her body failed her and her mind was poisoned.

But those days were rarer now. Many years had passed since that night, after all.

She took a sip of coffee, reveling in the sharp bitterness and mild creaminess.

Had she really thought that her life was over, after she lost her legs? Loss, that was worth mourning for. But was it enough to end a life?

In Barbara’s case, it was not.

Out of an odd burst of humor, she attempted to wiggle her big toe. It was unresponsive; she was neither surprised nor upset. All that time of physical therapy and operations, she knew full well that her legs would never work again.

She recalled the thrill of running, of dancing. Of the wind whistling across her body as she plummeted from a building; line safe in hand. A woman who had never had that ripped from her would’ve kept joyriding, perhaps never matured much past a giddy young girl. She’d thought that Gotham was a playground in her youth. Was losing that as much of a tragedy as losing spinning across a dance floor or balance beam, or had her vanished innocence been good for her?

Barbara couldn’t feel the cold metal against her ankles, but she could feel the light on her face as the yellow-white poured itself over the pinks and reds. Blue seeped in at the top, slowly dripping towards the horizon like paint.

It wasn’t a question of whether she had done good as Batgirl. She had. That was undeniable. But what was equally undeniable was that she did far better now, for far more people. She indirectly saved lives, made the people she loved happier, gave them purpose. It was almost funny, when strangers offered her pitying stares or condescending smiles on the street. They thought her life was a tragedy. Or worse, they thought to themselves, if someone so fundamentally broken could manage to survive, couldn’t they do it too?

As if she was never happy. As if her life was one big line of misery, because of her chair.

Wasn’t she happy?

Giving purpose to others was good, it filled her heart and gave her a reason to continue her work, but it was not enough. She had to give purpose to herself.

There was happiness in completing a book, in a hack well performed. In tasting Alfred’s cooking, in a tight hug or a sweet word from one of her best friends. In her father’s affection and support, in the Bats’ fucked-up, weird, adoring presence. There was joy in cracking her escrima across a bad guy’s face, just as much as there was in collapsing his empire from her desk. Her blood sang when her mentees took pride in their success, when her friends shared war stories over takeout, when she fucked, when she trained, when she took a hot bath or made a cup of tea.

Her life would never be the same as it had been. But she loved, she was loved, and most importantly, she loved herself. She loved her life.

Her life, within her chair, was by no means perfect or without pain. But it was a good life.

Another one of her sunrises proudly emblazoned itself across the sky in white-gold and robin’s-egg; the last of the night fading across the horizon as she finished her breakfast. Winter was swiftly vanishing from Gotham, the flowers ready to spring back into life from the snow.

Even from all the way out on the balcony, she could hear her machinery when it started to beep.

Barbara quickly rolled back inside, dumping her dishes into the sink and taking her place at her work desk. She settled her headset on, clicking her mic into life.

“Yes, this is Oracle, back online.”

“Oracle…there’s something we need you for…”


	7. I can't keep doubting myself anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to the end of the week, you guys. Thank you for sticking with me and my little experiment, and an extra thank you to everyone who kudos'ed and commented. 
> 
> A very happy birthday to our dear Barbara Gordon, and a final chapter. 
> 
> Title from Mary J. Blige's "Doubt"

Barbara couldn’t stop staring into that face.

 _Her_ face.

Well, not quite her face. The girl before her was nearly a decade younger, with softer cheeks, bigger eyes, her face not as tired. Her orange-auburn hair was long and silk-sleek, instead of Barbara’s wavy, practical bob. She still wore contact lenses instead of wire-rimmed glasses. The leather uniform she was clad in was functional and definitely would offer some protection, but the bright purple and yellow seemed so…conspicuous. Almost childishly loud.

But most importantly, the girl wearing her name and face had gotten up and _walked_ here, with the full ease of functional legs.

Barbara rubbed her eyes under her glasses, still not quite believing it. As if the whole concept of the multiverse wasn’t complicated enough, those damn speedsters had had to accidentally bring the “other selves” of roughly a hundred different superheroes in from a different reality. Barry and Wally had sworn up and down that the alternate-universe heroes would be naturally drawn back to their own reality within the day, but it was still going to be damn difficult explaining to the general public why there were two Supermen, two Wonder Women, and a frankly horrifying second Red Robin, Spoiler, and some kid named Orphan running around.

The girl shifted her feet, glancing around the Clock Tower and rubbing her upper arms.

“So, when are you going to let me go?”

Her voice was slightly different too, higher pitched with a distinct nasally undertone. Barbara grimaced.

“I’m not. It’s hard enough with copies of the rest of the Bats running around the city. I’m not having everyone wondering why the original, redheaded Batgirl’s suddenly come back from the dead, because that’s sure as hell not going to be happening again here.”

“You sure?” Batgirl bounced on her heels, pacing slightly. It was as if she was trying to cram as much motion into her feet and legs as possible. “I think it would be theoretically possible for you to get the same surgery I did, in this universe. You could be back on your feet within a month, and nobody would be the wiser about the whole alternate universe stuff.”

The words grated on Barbara’s nerves. She gritted her teeth, fists clenching as she tried to work. The humming of the computers seemed louder than usual.

“Just a shot in the dark here, but I think that they _might_ be able to tell the difference between me and you.”

“Well, there’s no need to be rude just ‘cause you’re old.” Batgirl raised her arms up over her head and began stretching in place. After a few basic yoga poses, she sank down into a total split, feet twitching slightly as she remained in the pose.

“Who’s being rude?” Barbara tried to settle into a rhythm on her computer.

“You! You’ve been nothing _but_ rude since you forced me into this crappy old place.” She bounced back to her feet, brushing off her trendy leather jacket.

“Well, if you don’t like my company, then go read a book. Take some pictures of yourself. I don’t care! Just leave me alone.”

There was a loud _click-huff_ from the girl, and for a moment, Barbara hoped that she’d pissed her off enough that she’d leave. But unfortunately, they had enough in common that they were both equally stubborn.

She looked over her shoulder to come face-to-face with the girl. She was scowling now…but there was something else behind the irritated pout, behind the black hood and perky bat ears. Something like _disgust_.

“Uh, you don’t have to be so obnoxious, you know.”

“Wow. Of the two people in this room, which one is a) tweeting about themselves, and b) hovering over my shoulder and talking with a fake uptown accent in my ear while I’m trying to work?”

Batgirl threw her hands up.

“Ugh! I give up! I tried to be nice to you —”

“Really? Did you?” The three words dripped sarcasm.

“— but you know what? If you’re going to be bitchy just because you’re _jealous of me_ —”

The entire world seemed to screech to a halt.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

Barbara turned her upper body around in her chair, gaping incredulously, fury rising in her chest like storm clouds. Batgirl’s mouth was still open; caught mid-sentence.

“Jealous — why, exactly, would I be jealous of you?” The words shot out like darts. “Tell me. Why would I be jealous of you? It can’t possibly be because of this chair, can it?”

Batgirl recovered. She put her hands on her hips, the identical look of anger growing across her face.

“Well, you’re being all defensive about it, aren’t you? You’re pissed because you’re limited. You’re weak, and if you can cure yourself and you don’t, you must love to wallow in it, get everyone’s pity! Why else would they want to be around you, with that attitude?”

Barbara threw her head back and laughed, loud and harsh.

“You think because I can’t do a backflip that I’m weak and limited? I have never had more power, more influence, never been more unlimited in my life.” She regarded the young girl, who was blustering in her indignation. “But clearly it’s not worth explaining to you. You may have my name and my DNA, but you’re not me.”

She turned away, not bothering to look her in the eye.

“Well thank god I’m not you! I don’t want to be like that again! Never again!” Boots echoed on the floor, growing steadily quieter.

Barbara abruptly leaned back, exhaling softly.

_Never again…_

How long, in that universe, had she lacked the use of her legs? A year? At the most. Not enough time to reacquaint herself with her body, to snap herself out of mourning and grief…

She shook her head. That was no excuse for the vitriol that practically rolled off her other self. That girl hated herself, hated her past disability, and by extension, hated Barbara. She had no identity beyond, couldn’t imagine a worthwhile existence without, the cape and cowl. She was far more Batgirl than she was Barbara Gordon.

_We’re fundamentally different selves. But the biggest difference? She’s afraid of a part of herself, completely tied to one identity, hates everything else. How does she live like that?_

Despite herself, she couldn’t help feeling some compassion for the irritating, immature Batgirl.

She rolled to the door, peering into the kitchen.

Batgirl had seated herself at the island and pulled her cowl back, muttering under her breath as she scrolled through something on her phone. Barbara noticed, rather absently, that she had multiple piercings through the cartilage of both ears and that her nails were painted vivid yellow to match her outfit.

She did feel a bit old by comparison, in her silver bird necklace, little hoop earrings, dark green wool sweater, and faded jeans. Not bad, just…grown.

“Do you really let boys talk to you like that?” she asked, peering over her alternate self’s shoulder and looking at her social media DMs. The girl sniffed and pulled away.

“It’s flattering, really. Besides, what do you care?”

Barbara decided what next to say, then decided against it.

“Look, you and I may literally be the same person, but we are not the same people. That being said, there’s something about the way you treat yourself that worries me.”

“The way I treat myself? Are you kidding? I love my life. It’s fun, it’s rewarding. The way people look at me? I never would’ve had this while I was crippled.”

“That, right there.” Barbara’s voice sharpened. “First of all, don’t you _ever_ use that word again. Second of all, it’s clear that you…you’re ashamed of having been disabled. You don’t understand how I could be happy like this, how I could have a fulfilling job and a good life, how my life could be rewarding while I’m in this chair. It’s _you_ that’s jealous of _me_.”

Batgirl’s fingers froze mid-air. Her mouth fell slightly open.

“Jealous of you?” Her voice went up an octave. “Why would I be jealous of you?” she demanded, clearly unaware of the irony of her repeating that phrase.

Barbara smiled bitterly.

“Because you never learned to be anything other than Batgirl. When that was gone, you thought you were nothing, right? You thought you could never be happy again because things would never be the same. So I bet that now that you can walk again, you thought you could be normal again; leave behind your days of misery in the chair.” She patted her palms against the top of the wheels. The girl had no response; she just stared. “For the first few months after the Joker got me, I felt the same way you did. But being Oracle was healthy for me. I _am_ happy. My life will never be the same, experimental surgery be damned, but I like it.” She paused. “And I like me…even if I am an old bitch,” she finished wryly.

Batgirl seemed to deflate before her eyes. All the youthful perkiness, the glittery confidence, melted out of the girl like strawberry ice cream under sunshine. She set her phone aside, sighing, perfectly conditioned hair falling over her eyes.

“I don’t understand how you can like yourself so much,” she said, but it sounded more sad than accusatory.

Barbara rolled closer, setting a hand on her shoulder.

“My disability is that and only that, a disability. It makes some physical things hard or impossible for me. It’s not a character defect, or something to look down on and pity, or a statement that I’m broken and tragic. It’s an integral part of me, but it’s not necessarily good or bad. It just is.” Batgirl looked up at her. “And I love the rest of me. So there’s no reason to not love this part of me as well.”

The girl — she still couldn’t quite think of this alternate self as Barbara Gordon — seemed to ponder this. Then she sighed again.

“Sorry for being an asshole.”

“And I’m sorry for being rude to you at first. But don't _ever_ throw slurs at people again,” Barbara said sternly. “And don’t take your own issues out on strangers. And don’t let boys talk to you like that. It’s not flattering, it’s degrading, and you’re barely more than a child.”

“I am not a child!”

Well, you couldn’t win them all.

“I’m just saying. Honesty and respect beat out objectification any day when you’re considering someone to get with.”

“How would you know?”

“You’d be surprised. I’m old, not dead.”

“Oh my god. You…with your legs, how do you even…”

She had to resist the urge to laugh at the simultaneously contemplative and horrified look on Batgirl’s face.

“None of your business, also, not the point.” She readjusted her glasses. “Anyway. Apparently, the timestream will only stay open for another couple hours, then you’ll be pulled back to your reality. Until then, you can read any of my books or help yourself to anything in the fridge; just don’t touch my computers and you’re good.”

Batgirl nodded, beginning to look more like her old bouncy self. Barbara turned around and began to head back towards her workspace.

“Hey, um, Oracle?”

Barbara paused.

“I’ll think about…the self-love stuff. Maybe. A little bit.” The kid fidgeted in her seat. “And you’re not as awful as I thought you were.”

“Thanks. Good luck out there, kid.”

She settled back at her workspace, lost in thought. Batgirl would never be _her_. That was for certain. Maybe too, her words would be for nothing, and off in that other universe, her advice would be cast aside, her work dismissed, her legacy would be lost forever.

But _she_ was her. She made a difference. She mattered to people, she loved herself and her own life.

She booted up her computer again, letting the priestess symbol glow to life across the screen.

She was Oracle.

She was Barbara Gordon.

Here and now, she existed as wholly herself, in all her glory. And here and now, that was all that mattered.


End file.
